


Prometheus Bound

by Barb G (troutkitty)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Futures Without End, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-03-30
Updated: 1999-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:15:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story based around Prometheus Bound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prometheus Bound

**Author's Note:**

> This first appeared in Futures Without End II edited by Melina Clark and Maygra. [An illustrated version can be found on the Futures Without End site](http://mediafans.org/futures2/11prometheus.html).

Methos put the car in park. He turned up the heat but deliberately kept the radio off in case Byron's voice came on; that would be too much. He leaned back and watched the barge as it floated alone in the darkness. The light coming through the window dimmed, and he figured MacLeod must be reading. Methos hugged the steering wheel and wondered which book MacLeod...

This was pathetic. He was... _stalking_ MacLeod. _Put the car in gear_ , he ordered himself. _Leave now, before MacLeod comes up for some late night meditation and senses you._ Methos touched the gear shift hesitantly, but turned the car off instead of driving to...away from MacLeod. He'd visited MacLeod in the middle of the night a dozen times before, and MacLeod had never turned him away...but that was before. Before Kronos, before Cassandra, just before. The door rocked open, and the cold air touched his ankles first. His stomach tightened, and his damp skin chilled. Bloody hell, this was ridiculous. What was the worst thing that could happen?

Methos shut the door. MacLeod would throw him in the river. No, that was an understatement. MacLeod would weigh him down and then throw him in the river. The need to laugh at himself began where the ache in his groin ended, and he buried his head in the crook of his arm until the fit passed. He only got out of the car because the cold swim would be good for him. But--just in case--he grabbed his bag from the back seat...just in case.

Methos let himself into the barge and threw down his overnight bag. MacLeod put his sword away and waited. When Methos remained silent, MacLeod's entire body language changed. Instead of a cautiously friendly smile, his lips tightened, hollowing his cheeks slightly. They looked at each other for a second, and then MacLeod smiled again, but this time his expression held only bitterness. There was no way the disgust MacLeod had for him matched the disgust Methos had for himself, but no one was in the Seine yet.

Methos parted his lips to speak, but changed his mind. He saw the hunger in MacLeod's eyes and shifted his weight to the other foot, enjoying the discomfort he caused. Obviously, Mac couldn't ignore him. Good. That began to make them more even. Methos lowered his eyes to slits, powerless to stop the smile caused by his awareness of MacLeod's weakness. He didn't want to stop it, actually. By coming here tonight, he had already shown MacLeod how weak he himself was. Methos wanted to show MacLeod he knew how weak they both were. MacLeod suddenly understood, and Methos saw the anger break through the bitterness. His smile widened and became more condescending. That didn't work. MacLeod's fists tightened, but stayed by his side. Methos looked up again, narrowed his eyes, and shook his head. Coward.

MacLeod lost control and backhanded him across the cheek. Methos fell against the door frame, and the dull ache in his groin flared up again. It wasn't the type of contact he wanted, but it was a start. Methos remained against the wall for a moment until he was in control again, then straightened up and rubbed his cheek.

MacLeod waited for him to protest, but Methos stayed quiet. There. That was better. Now they were even. Desire, guilt--things were back to normal. MacLeod almost looked like he wanted to apologize, but Methos smiled again and rubbed his cheek, not letting MacLeod forget the violence. The uncertainty in MacLeod's eyes ended, and Methos relaxed. He hadn't come here tonight to talk to MacLeod about his feelings. Methos was empty except for the ache, and he needed MacLeod.

"To what do I owe this honour?" Duncan asked sarcastically and leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. MacLeod's face was dark, but he couldn't hide the vulnerability behind the darkness.

 _What do you think?_ Methos rested a hand on his hip, but didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. The roles were clearly established--all that remained was actual positioning--and it hadn't cost him anything. He started shivering, even though he finally felt warm.

They hadn't parted well the last time, and that was before the entire Horseman thing--or more exactly, the Kronos thing--had happened. They had managed to continue the friendship, but Methos hadn't known how well Mac would accept these kinds of infrequent visits. MacLeod still wanted him and that calmed him down. He'd still have to appease MacLeod's ethics, but it was better than one more night alone in his empty apartment.

So, why couldn't he walk out? No, that was the wrong question. Why couldn't he stay away? And why couldn't MacLeod push him out the door and lock it behind him? Methos touched his cheek again, rubbing it with his fingertips, but he couldn't recreate the sensation of being touched by MacLeod. It didn't matter to him that the touch was the back of Mac's hand and done in anger. He needed the contact.

The accusation was back in Mac's eyes, and although he tried to pass the frown off as disapproving, there was an edge to it. Methos had hurt MacLeod, but Methos didn't want to care. It was sick the way MacLeod had flirted with Amanda while Methos was in the room after the Keane fiasco. He had been punishing Methos for waiting so long after their return from Bordeaux to visit him. Methos had tried to stay away from MacLeod's body for as long as he could, until the images of it kept him awake at night in a sweat. Then it was time to come back. MacLeod was a drug, damn him.

Methos still hadn't answered the question, nor did he have any intention of doing so. Mac knew as well as he did why he was here. Instead, Methos crossed the distance between them. Mac watched him with his eyes narrowed, no doubt ready for anything from a kiss to a slap to a knife in the belly. Methos gave him the first option, smiling at the fact that MacLeod still respected him enough to fear him slightly. Respect and fear would never turn into anything more serious, but it was emotion, and he'd rather reach for what he could obtain than stretch his neck out.

Methos parted his lips, inviting MacLeod to take him. Once Methos gave his permission, MacLeod grabbed the lapels of his coat and threw him back against the island. Mac's teeth raked against Methos' lip, and the pain made him shudder. Mac needed him, really needed him. MacLeod could lie with his eyes and words, but he couldn't deny this. Methos grunted as his jacket bunched and poked his sword into his side, but didn't complain. "Do you think you can just show up whenever the mood hits you and expect me to drop everything to entertain you?" MacLeod demanded, breaking away from the kiss.

Methos smiled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He didn't say anything, just delicately uncurled each of the fingers holding his lapels before slipping the jacket off his shoulders. It landed with a clank, and Methos kicked it away. Mac placed both palms against the countertop on either side of Methos while he pulled off his sweater as well; the physical attempts to confine him made the dull ache in Methos' groin flare up again. He always managed to forget between visits how intimidating MacLeod could be when he tried. Early on it had amused him to push Mac just a little bit to get him annoyed. But then Sean Burns had happened, and for the first time, Methos actually believed MacLeod would take his head if he interfered.

And here was that same tension all over again. MacLeod wanted to use him and hurt him. But this time, there was more; this time, Mac wanted to break him. And Methos needed to break. The slap at the beginning of the game was just a preliminary gambit. He threw his sweater on top of his jacket, MacLeod barely giving him the room he needed to move. He felt the heat of MacLeod's body, and he wondered if he would ever feel protected, instead of apprehensive, in this position. If all Mac wanted to do was hurt him, he could handle the pain. It was rejection he feared the most.

Methos felt Duncan's breath quicken as his half-naked body pressed close. The softness and heat from MacLeod's sweater tickled and caressed him, and Methos couldn't help moving against it. It was only an accident that his cock brushed Mac through both pairs of tight jeans, but MacLeod stopped breathing. Methos smiled, knowing he had as much power over MacLeod as MacLeod had over him, though the knowledge didn't prevent him from feeling trapped. But to escape it, he had to surrender to it. He pressed a feather-light kiss on MacLeod's cheek. "Right here, right now," he whispered, speaking for the first time. Unconditional submission to MacLeod was the best way to bypass his objections.

Methos grunted as Mac threw him around, and his belly caught against the edge of the counter. It knocked the breath out of him, and by the time he could breathe again, Mac had his jeans down and was already inside him. The pain stabbed him, and he tried to climb onto the counter to get away from it. Only MacLeod's hands on his hips kept him in place. "Take it," MacLeod growled.

Methos froze. Take it? He couldn't believe MacLeod would say something like that to him, but the thrill of it started in the small of his back and went straight through to his groin.  


He pressed his forehead against the counter and took it as ordered, knowing the great man would never know what it felt like to have a cock shoved inside him without any preparation or lubrication. His indignation overrode the pain, but then MacLeod found the right angle, running a hand over Methos' cock and lightly cupping him at the same time. He forgave everything.  


  


He still hated getting fucked with his pants down around his knees, but when he tried to slip them down the rest of the way, MacLeod pinned him against the counter. Methos stretched out, pressing his forearms against the cool counter as Mac's hands dug into his body, trying to hold him in place. Methos threw his head back, feeling MacLeod's lips on his neck. The day's slight stubble brushed his skin, making the caress more physical. "Please," he sighed, not caring that it was a sign of weakness. He reached out, gripping the other end of the island. The counter was smooth and cool against his skin. He felt one arm wrap around his lower belly while the other one snaked around his throat. MacLeod just grunted behind him.

MacLeod pulled him back and wrestled him to the ground. He landed hard on his knees, and MacLeod slipped out of him. He protested the sudden empty feeling, and MacLeod had to let go of his throat to fumble inside him again. This time, MacLeod stretched him enough that it didn't hurt too much. Methos trembled, and it had nothing to do with the weight over him. MacLeod no longer held him; Methos could have crawled away and saved what was left of his dignity, but he didn't. He almost wanted to laugh. There was nothing left to save, and they both knew that, too. MacLeod refused to move inside him, though, not until Methos begged for it. "Mac, please. Don't--you win," Methos hissed. It was what MacLeod wanted to hear. More games. After everything they had been through, it was probably the only thing Methos deserved.

Methos bit his tongue as MacLeod pounded his frustration into him. Methos absorbed the anger passively; it was only fair, after the way he had left last time, slipping away without saying anything. He had fully expected to come back and find Mac with someone else, but each time he walked through the door in this kind of mood, he ended up exactly where he was right now: on his elbows and knees, getting fucked by a Scot who didn't understand his feelings, either.

But holy Christ, did it feel good. Methos' entire body shuddered as Mac hit his prostate. Mac's hand slipped down from Methos' belly to between his legs, and he wrapped it around Methos' thigh to hold him in place. The indirect contact on his cock ended all thought. He moved his jaw, trying to beg MacLeod to hurry up, but he couldn't find the words he needed. He sobbed once, unable to stop it, and then gasped as MacLeod's hand brushed against his testicles. MacLeod grunted again as he almost slipped away, then bit him on the shoulder as punishment.

The pain was exquisite. MacLeod knew his body, his wants, and his needs. The teeth slowly sunk deeper into his skin, sending shocks of pain to mingle with the rest of the sensations, and he couldn't wait for MacLeod. Christ, MacLeod wasn't even touching him, and he still couldn't stop himself. He almost blacked out as he came, and as soon as MacLeod felt him tighten up, his hand slid down Methos' body and gathered him up, milking him, more than anything. The only thing that held Methos up was the Scot pounding his last few seconds of anger into his body, and then they both fell forward. Methos could feel MacLeod's hot, heavy breathing on his neck, and the hands on his hips dug deeper into his skin. A minute ago, he could have ignored it, but now, even that mild discomfort was too much for his raw nerves. He groaned, but didn't have the strength to get up and away from MacLeod.

Duncan moved off him, though, as soon as he could. Methos crawled up and collapsed against the island, feeling the cold metal hinges on his bare back. He could remember a time when MacLeod would stay over him and kiss his neck, whispering pathetically sappy things. Now the only sound was the whisper of clothing being replaced.

"It's not your fault, MacLeod," he managed at last, disgusted with how much effort it took to keep from panting. His heartbeat still raced, and breathing was difficult. Duncan stopped long enough to pull his sweater back on. "If it makes you feel better, blame me," he said, and then climbed shakily to his feet.

Duncan stopped and looked at him. Methos stared back flatly, and MacLeod went to him. Methos pulled back slightly against the island, but Duncan only stroked his cheek. Methos turned into the touch, and Duncan lifted his chin, kissing him gently. Methos sighed, holding still as MacLeod pressed his forehead against Methos' own.

"I don't blame you," MacLeod whispered. "But you ignored me. No note, no phone calls...nothing. And then you come to me like this, months later, like nothing happened. Methos, I...I can't live like this."

This time, Methos didn't feel like it was his fault. After...after what had happened, he hadn't thought MacLeod would want him back in his bed. But he didn't want to say anything for fear MacLeod would change his mind about taking him back. He suddenly felt grateful for the fuck, and that made him sick to his stomach. He reminded himself that it was all he had come for, but it didn't help the disgust. He was still a slut, after all these years. He looked up, feeling bitter. He hadn't even been taken back. He'd been fucked, nothing else.

Methos' head started to throb as the last of the glow drained out of his body. His arms were heavy as he reached up and wrapped them around Mac's shoulders and kissed him slowly. It was an action born of a probably vain hope that MacLeod wouldn't say any more and that his own brain would quiet down and leave him in peace. Anything was better than that slightly accusatory tone MacLeod used on him almost all the time now. It shut the Scot up for less than a minute before Mac pushed him away.

"Damn it, Methos," Mac said, breathing heavily. "Why do you do this to me?"

Methos waited a moment and studied the man before answering. For an instant, MacLeod looked afraid. With flushed cheeks, wild hair escaping the ponytail, and almost frantic eyes, MacLeod looked panicked over what he had just done. Over what Methos had done to him. It wasn't fair to either of them.

"Methos?" MacLeod asked again.

Methos couldn't decide whether to tell the truth or not. Finally, he gave MacLeod what he thought Mac wanted to hear. "Because I can't help it, either," Methos said quietly, hoping the answer would be good enough. It didn't sound good enough to him. He stepped past MacLeod, who grabbed his arm.

"Where are you going?" MacLeod demanded, and in spite of the wild hair, the Highlander was apparently back to his usual self. A single fingernail broke the skin on his forearm, and they both stared at the thin line of blood that formed in a crescent around the nail. Duncan jerked back, and Methos brought the slight wound to his mouth and sucked it until it closed.

"The shower," Methos said and then sniffed. "You smell like a rutting goat, too." He, too, could pretend that nothing had happened. What fun games they played.

"Don't take all the hot water," MacLeod said and went into the kitchen.

Methos glanced back, but Mac wasn't looking at him. He hadn't excluded the Scot; that was all on MacLeod's tight, agitated shoulders. He shouldn't have come tonight. A faceless fuck in some club would have taken the edge off...only it hadn't worked the last time or the time before that. He wasn't looking for nameless encounters any more and blamed it all on MacLeod.

The water pelted him, washing off bodily fluids that weren't his own. He watched the water swirl down the drain and pressed both palms against the wall. _Why did I come here tonight?_

Oh, yeah, the advertisement he'd seen across the entire side of a bus. Living alone was something Methos couldn't handle. He'd done it before, but it drained him more every time. He'd finally gotten the passion back in his life, and MacLeod had slammed the door to it in his face. Then Byron's poster had driven by. That boy had overflowed with enough passion to fill him as well, but it had been deeper and sicker than MacLeod's need. Methos wasn't willing to go down to Byron's level again. Not after Kronos. After five thousand years, the void inside him was sometimes larger than he was, and MacLeod was the only person he trusted to fill him any more.

Still...the white skin, the haunted, hungry eyes...Byron had needed him back then. He'd sucked on Methos' skin like a lost babe in the beginning, when Methos had first taken him as a student, and Byron had been so bitter about living forever with a wasted body. Methos moved his hand from the wall, down his body, and gently cupped himself, remembering how eagerly Byron had swallowed him.

He closed his eyes and slowly stroked himself. Byron used to wait eagerly for Methos to fuck him almost everywhere they went. The thrill of nearly getting caught by Byron's help seemed to heighten the excitement of the games for them. How unlike MacLeod, who wouldn't even glance at him when they were out in public. Byron only cared about the sensations his body could give him, whether strung-out on laudanum or hyper-aware from something else. Mac just cared about his morals.

There really was no comparison...only he still wanted MacLeod.

The water started to cool off, and Methos snapped out of the daydream. He hadn't been in the shower that long, had he? MacLeod's one request, and he'd ignored it. He turned off the water and wrapped a towel around his hips before going back into the main room. MacLeod did not look up at him from where he sat, ostensibly going through some notes on the island, his neck exposed. _Do you trust me, MacLeod, or are you just not afraid of me?_ Methos came up behind him and wrapped his arms around the warm body, but MacLeod brushed him aside. "I thought you said I stunk," he said, going off to have a shower himself.

The rejection stung, but Methos wasn't going to make it worse by letting himself be pushed away again. He really shouldn't have come, but he'd be damned if he'd leave now. He shook his head and tried to distract himself.

MacLeod said nothing about the lack of hot water. Methos went through his bag and took out a clean pair of jeans. He didn't want the shirt he'd brought, so he borrowed one of MacLeod's sweaters. If nothing else, it meant one more excuse for a visit. He was pulling on his boots as MacLeod came back out again. He stopped tugging on the lace as MacLeod stood in front of him.

"Leaving so soon?" MacLeod asked, already dressed.

"Um...yeah," he said, deliberately not clarifying it any further.

MacLeod waited with his jaw clenched and then let out an angry breath of air. "You're here, you might as well come down to Joe's."

"MacLeod--" Methos began, but MacLeod grabbed his jacket and pulled him up the stairs.

"Come on," Mac said. He obviously didn't even consider that Methos wouldn't obey, and Methos didn't disappoint him.

In the car, MacLeod acted as if everything was back to normal. Methos tried to get something out of his sometimes-lover by carefully placing his foot on the dash, but other than slapping it down, MacLeod didn't look at him. He sighed and stopped fussing.

The boy playing at the club was good, but that didn't excuse MacLeod's demeanor. He looked happy and carefree again as he sipped from his glass. Methos shook his head, unable to ignore how relaxed MacLeod looked, stretched out on his chair like that. Methos knew there was nothing improper about it, but MacLeod was smiling. He hadn't smiled all evening. Methos felt jealous over a boy who had absolutely nothing to do with what was happening.

Then Byron walked in, and the night went from bad to worse. Methos saw the way Duncan's back knotted under his sweater when Byron said, "Any friend of Doc's." The meaning was quite clear. The interesting thing was, with Byron right there in front of him, he felt nothing. Respect for Byron's words, the remnants of past friendship, yes, but he didn't want his old student. At the end of the night, he didn't even suggest returning with the poet. He got into MacLeod's car instead.

MacLeod seemed surprised to see him there. Methos watched him glance over sideways half a dozen times. "What?" he finally demanded.

"Is there something you want to tell me?"

"Okay, how about this. The light's green. Shouldn't we be--?" Methos made fluttering motions with his fingers.

MacLeod swore, throwing the car in gear. "Who's Byron?"

"Poet turned rock star. Bad leg. Likes particular nuts. What do you want to know, MacLeod?"

"Were you...together?"

"Does it matter?"

"No!"

"Is that why your nails are digging into the steering wheel, MacLeod? Have I asked you about every person you've ever been with? If you want my annals, you should learn to read Sanskrit. Yes, I had a relationship with Byron. We had fun, that was it. I'm with you now."

"You aren't with me, Methos. We have fun. That's it," MacLeod's voice lowered.

"That can change. Drop me off here."

"Don't be an ass. Your bag is at the barge," MacLeod snapped and then looked at his face. With an angry flick of his wrist, Mac flipped on his turn signal and pulled over. Methos went to open his door, but Mac grabbed his arm. "Don't go," MacLeod said.

"MacLeod--"

"Methos, don't go." Duncan repeated. "Please," Methos glanced down at the hand on his wrist and sat back in his seat.

"Why not?" he asked, not looking up from the hand.

"Because...I don't want you to."

Methos looked up to MacLeod's face. He didn't particularly want to, either. He leaned across the seat and said, "Drop the Byron business, MacLeod. Drop it now, or I am out of here." MacLeod had hidden his jealousy well throughout most of the evening, but he was starting to slip. There was a glint...no, that was the wrong word. There was a look in his eyes that gave away how much Byron's presence had upset him. Methos stared at the man next to him flatly. It never bothered Methos when Amanda pushed him out of the barge; Mac and he didn't have that kind of relationship. Where was this possessiveness coming from?

He forced himself to look away. It wasn't that kind of possessiveness, and he was fooling himself if he even started to believe it could be otherwise. He was a part of MacLeod's life in much the same way the sofa was a part of the barge. He had a purpose, and they both knew it.

The silence stretched on. It was a hard choice for Mac. Finally MacLeod nodded, and Methos leaned back in his seat. Duncan didn't start the car right away.

"Let's go back to your place, MacLeod, please?" Methos asked tiredly.

MacLeod pulled back into traffic without looking at him.

* * *

MacLeod didn't even wait for him to close the door before throwing him against the wall. The violence startled him, but he didn't complain. Methos parted his lips to protest, but before he thought of the words to use MacLeod kissed him. Mac forced his way into Methos' mouth, but there was nothing sensual about it; it was MacLeod marking his territory. Methos supposed he should be glad MacLeod didn't want to piss on him. That would have left little doubt as to his status.

But Methos kept coming back. And he stayed still for it. And he wanted it. MacLeod was right--they had fun, that was it. He shouldn't hate MacLeod for not giving him what he hadn't even asked for. This had never been about tenderness. And it would never be about...he couldn't even think the word. Mac would never betray those he actually loved by including Methos on that list. Methos only demanded MacLeod's body when he could no longer live without it, and that meant playing by MacLeod's understanding of the relationship. He smiled. They didn't even like each other all that much. Not any more, at least. Maybe when it first started, but Methos' secrets had ended that.

But if he really didn't want it, he could have left and been done with it; nothing kept him here--except his need to see himself through MacLeod. So, he remained passive under MacLeod and let himself be possessed.

"On the couch," MacLeod growled. Methos waited for Mac to release him and then grunted as his arm was twisted back behind him. He leaned to bend over the furniture, excited despite his annoyance with MacLeod's behaviour, but MacLeod threw him down instead, forcing him to a sitting position on the couch. He shuddered as anticipation made his body ache, and he couldn't help parting his knees even more as MacLeod concentrated on him. Methos knew MacLeod was only thinking of the best position in which to fuck him, but it didn't matter, not any more. He protested as MacLeod slapped his hand away from the front of his jeans, then bit his lip and slipped both hands under his thighs, feeling chastised.

MacLeod grabbed Methos' jeans, undoing them roughly and ripping them off before throwing them aside. Methos would have asked for a more comfortable position, but the frightening blankness of Mac's features persuaded Methos that he probably shouldn't speak at that moment. _Get it over with, get it out of your system. Then we can talk._

He grimaced as MacLeod grabbed his hips and pulled him to the padded edge. He had to arch his back to keep more tension on his neck as it rested against the couch. Besides, he thought as he slid a bit further down to make it a little easier on MacLeod, he wouldn't stop it, even if he could. MacLeod oiled himself and slid inside. Methos sighed and felt his legs tremble. MacLeod slowly began moving inside him, torturing him ever so slowly.

"Open your eyes," MacLeod whispered. The change in voice startled Methos; he'd almost mistake it for tenderness if he didn't know better. He looked up, and MacLeod leaned to press their foreheads together.

"Methos...Methos," MacLeod whispered. Methos hadn't been expecting this...this...what ever this was. He preferred the brutality to this gentleness. At least then he knew what to expect. This was...this was...oh, this was good, but he didn't know how much it was going to cost him, or if he was willing to pay it. Once MacLeod was inside him, Methos could feel the tension slip away. For a brief moment, everything was fine again. They could be friends and lovers and forget everything that had happened. Methos reached up, pulling MacLeod closer to him. MacLeod began moving faster inside him, and Methos sighed.

"It's okay," Methos found himself saying. MacLeod closed his eyes and turned his head, and the grip on Methos' hips tightened, but the change only made Mac seem more vulnerable to him. MacLeod sobbed once, holding on to Methos while fucking him harder, and Methos again found himself speaking soothingly, meaninglessly, to the man. Accepting it. Accepting him. Why couldn't they do this when they weren't...Methos stopped himself from thinking about it.

Methos swallowed, his mouth dry, barely able to keep from panting. His entire body ached, and with only his hips and neck touching the couch, he couldn't really move. The helplessness engendered panic. "Please," he whispered. He reached up and touched the bridge of MacLeod's nose before tracing out Mac's lips. Duncan tried to kiss his finger, but Methos pulled it back, running it down the line that appeared on Mac's cheek when he grimaced from the strain.

MacLeod's skin glistened with beads of sweat, and Methos lapped at the saltiness. Mac was close, and Methos tightened his muscles around Mac's cock to help him. MacLeod threw himself against him, chest to chest, and their combined weight forced Methos to sit down. MacLeod slipped out of him, still coming, and he spilled over Methos' belly. MacLeod rolled off him, his chest heaving.

Methos' throat was dry enough to hurt. He swallowed, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Even though they had just had sex four hours ago, Methos ached with need. "Please," he whispered, finally turning his head to where Mac was. MacLeod wasn't looking at him, though; he was looking at the pearl droplets on his belly. Mac reached out and touched one of them, working it slowly into Methos' skin. MacLeod's hand on him was too much, even if it wasn't touching him intimately. "MacLeod, please," Methos whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. The tears didn't surprise him. The agony spread from his thighs to his ankles and up to the roots of his hair. This wasn't fair. He couldn't stop shuddering as MacLeod finally slipped to his knees.

But it wasn't the same. MacLeod would not look him in the eye. What ever...bond...they had shared in the past few moments broke, and even with MacLeod on his knees in front of him, it went back to MacLeod doing Methos a favour. MacLeod's tongue lapped up what he had left on the skin of Methos' stomach, and Methos threw his head back, sobbing again. This was what he was reduced to. Mac's tongue was soft and warm, and when it finally moved lower, Methos' entire body spasmed. All he could feel was the tightness and heat from deep down MacLeod's throat; every other part of him had shut down, overwhelmed.

His opening was already slick and stretched, and he couldn't have expelled Mac's fingers if he'd wanted to. Two of them slipped inside him, working him with the same skill as the mouth around him. His hands came down over MacLeod's ears, and Mac didn't seem to mind being forced to hurry. The fingers inside him moved in time with the increased pace. Methos' hands tightened, unable to stop himself, but Mac didn't complain as he dug into his scalp or pulled his hair. His gut tightened and then let go. But it just wasn't the same, and Methos felt cheap because of it. MacLeod's orgasm had been almost cathartic, his release more than what it was. But this...this just seemed like getting off.

Methos spent the night. In the beginning, he hadn't. He'd driven home, still able to smell MacLeod on his body, and that was enough. It had surprised him the first time Mac had grabbed his arm and asked him to stay, because in the morning Mac was right back to pretending that nothing had happened during the previous evening. They would have coffee, reading their different newspapers, completely civilized, as if they were still just friends.

Methos would add more sugar to his coffee and go back to staring at MacLeod over the newspaper, and MacLeod would pretend not to see it. The slow burn of these thoughts tore at him, but usually the only thing Methos did about it was to stir his coffee. Round and round. And they would repeat the whole process again. It was an unwritten rule.

After a shower and the sex that might happen there, MacLeod would not touch him again until the next late-night visit. It had been a security blanket, a way to look at each other and not feel the guilt or the need. Sitting there, with his muscles still not recovered from the battering they had received, he could pretend it would be the last time. Or at least the last time for a while.

But now, it was a mockery, and Methos was sick of it, but there was nothing he could say...nothing he could do to change it.

Once in bed, Methos waited until MacLeod was almost asleep before speaking. Duncan was pressed up against his back, and not being able to see the man helped. "He was a student of mine," Methos said. He didn't whisper, and his words startled him in the silence of the rest of the night. "It grew into more. Maybe I shouldn't have let it happen, but I did." He heard MacLeod's breathing change. "So it goes against your ethics. You have forgiven me worse," Methos said, quietly. Mac put his hand over Methos' hip, but didn't comment. Methos opened his mouth to speak again, but couldn't find the right words. He could never find the right words any more. "You wouldn't understand," he said, finally.

"Try me," MacLeod whispered.

"He was brilliant, passionate...and sick, MacLeod. Soul sick. He understood right from wrong, healthy from depraved, but he didn't care. It didn't apply to him. He burned with his apathy, and he swept me along with him. I don't know," Methos rubbed his face. "Maybe I just have a thing for younger men with conviction."

"That's not conviction."

"To him it is...I don't want to talk about it any more. Goodnight, MacLeod," Methos said and then rolled onto his belly, hugging his pillow. MacLeod let him pull away without saying anything else. They fell asleep, separated by more than just distance.

He woke up to the sound of the shower; MacLeod had not waited for him. He got up and entered the bathroom naked, stepping up behind MacLeod, who didn't stop washing the conditioner out of his hair. Methos picked up one of the strands, still slightly oily with the rinse, and wound it around his finger until his knuckle was pressed tightly against the back of MacLeod's neck. Duncan turned around, and Methos let the movement wrap his hand around MacLeod's neck rather than letting go. For a moment it looked like MacLeod was going to say something, and Methos saw the pain in his eyes. "Mac...I..." he tried.

MacLeod wouldn't let him finish. He dropped to his knees in front of Methos, and Methos let him. Methos felt Mac's breath on his thigh, and MacLeod almost kissed him before parting his lips. Methos leaned back, trying to focus on the physical, but for once, it didn't work. It wasn't enough. He looked down and saw MacLeod apparently worshipping him, but it felt hollow and empty. MacLeod tried for less than a minute, but just as Methos was going to push him away, MacLeod stood up.

Methos unwrapped his hand from Mac's hair and let him go. "Who where you thinking about?" MacLeod demanded, turning the water off with an angry twist of his wrists. Methos hadn't showered yet, but didn't protest. "Him?"

"Just you," Methos said, telling the truth, but MacLeod would never believe it. What could he say? He was looking for something more...personal? That would go over well. He snorted at his thoughts, but MacLeod thought it was directed at him. Methos knew he annoyed the man with everything he said or did or didn't do...or didn't say. They hadn't laughed together for months. Mac could understand obsession. The Scot knew how it felt to look at someone and need their body, but Mac could never love him. Not after the Horsemen. Not after Kronos. Forgiven not forgotten. And not even forgiven all that well. Tolerated. That was the word. MacLeod tolerated him. Instead of feeling angry he just felt...sad. It wasn't enough. Not anymore.

"If you want him, go. Nothing is holding you here, Methos. Nothing ever was," MacLeod snapped. Naked and furious, he stalked out of the bathroom. Methos let him go and turned the water back on. MacLeod needed time to cool off, and he still had to wash his hair.

At the breakfast table, MacLeod said nothing about Methos' failure to perform. Methos knew he should leave; he should cut his losses and disappear, but instead he masochistically followed Duncan to the bar and read the newspaper while he and Joe spoke. As pathetic as it made him feel, being close to MacLeod calmed him down. Why else would he stay? But MacLeod ignored him, and he didn't know how to explain what had happened, so he didn't. Let Mac think it was all Byron's fault. Byron would be leaving soon, and then they could pretend nothing was wrong. He stared at MacLeod, who continued to ignore him. What could he do, though? He was back in MacLeod's lukewarm graces again, and he would rather not risk sliding back out by complaining.

Mike came back, wired and strung-out. Methos could tell that even from where he sat. He could also see MacLeod's full-blown protective instincts rising to the occasion. But it was more than that, this time. MacLeod hated the poet and was willing to use Mike's condition as an excuse. But in spite of everything, Byron was Methos' friend, and he still wanted to protect him from MacLeod's angry jealousy, even if Mac saw it as righteous indignation. When Methos saw Joe's worried face, he softened slightly; maybe Mike did need a little help after all.

When MacLeod said he was going to talk to Byron, Methos jumped to his feet to go along. He didn't trust the two of them alone together.

* * *

Methos stiffened when Byron put his arm around him. Byron must have realized that the touch wasn't welcome and moved aside, but of course MacLeod didn't see that.

"Leave the kid alone," MacLeod ordered and turned to go.

Methos passed back the skull he held, glancing down at the same time. He made it to the door and then hung back. "Wait for me outside," he told MacLeod softly. MacLeod glared at him, but evidently wouldn't argue the point in front of Byron. Methos closed the door behind MacLeod and rested against it.

"Tell me, Doc. Who's he more upset about, you or the kid?" Byron asked, moving up against him. Methos pressed his palm against Byron's chest and moved him back.

"Don't," he said, quietly. "I need to talk to you."

Byron took his hand, but Methos pulled it away. "Don't bait him, Byron. He's looking for an excuse. I'm telling you this as your friend," Methos said, emphasizing the last word.

Byron nodded, then motioned out the door with his chin. "Is it because of him?" he asked. "You've replaced me with that?"

"You've been warned," Methos said flatly and turned the doorknob, but Byron reached out and held the door shut. Methos could have easily pulled it open, but he didn't. Byron's silk shirt touched his cheek for a moment, and he could smell stale perfume, sweat, and the hint of...he could never place that last scent. It was almost animalistic. Just like old times.

"So, that's it, then? You're walking away from me again?" Byron whispered in his ear. "Have you forgotten how to share?" Already at a whisper, Byron's voice lowered still further. "I can't imagine a man like that would appreciate your special talents, Doc." Methos froze as Byron's tongue slipped out and worked against his ear. "Or at least he walks like he doesn't. Tell me something, Doc? When was the last time he waited for you against the wall with his legs apart like I used to?"

Methos froze for a second and then jerked on the door. Byron took a quick step back to keep from falling. "Good-bye," Methos said.

He got into the car, but MacLeod didn't start it. Methos waited and then rested his head against the back of the seat. "I only told him to be careful, MacLeod. You flatter me if you think we had enough time for a quickie."

MacLeod glanced at him sideways and then took a long, slow look down his body. "Considering what happened this morning, I know that didn't happen."

Methos worked his jaw, not willing to believe he had heard MacLeod right. He shook his head, reaching for the door handle, and MacLeod didn't try to stop him. That hurt even worse. There was something so comforting about MacLeod reaching out and grabbing him, stopping him from leaving.

As maddening and possessive as it was, it had meant MacLeod wanted him.

Which obviously wasn't the case any more. He spent the day alone, angry at himself. He couldn't go back to his place, the barge was off-limits, and he didn't want to go back to Joe's in case MacLeod showed up. So, when he found himself in front of Byron's hotel, he wasn't surprised. He went up to the room and knocked, but the door wasn't locked. He went inside.

Only in sleep and death did people truly look innocent, and Mike wasn't asleep. He stood over the body for a moment with his head bowed and his eyes closed, but it wasn't for the boy that he mourned. Boys died all the time; they were so frail that way. MacLeod...why did it always come back to him? MacLeod would blame Byron and go for his head, and then Mac would find Methos guilty by association.

And what little chance that might have remained to get together--really together, and not this pseudo-relationship--died along with the boy. He couldn't blame MacLeod, and he couldn't blame the dead boy. Which left only one person.

Byron didn't look all that surprised to see him--not that he took Methos' warning any more seriously than he had earlier in the day. Byron was still such a child himself. Maybe that was Methos' fault. Maybe he had sheltered his student too much, glossed over and forgiven the behaviour because of the mind behind it all--but none of that would save Byron now. MacLeod would be coming for him, and MacLeod would win. Byron had no idea how good the Scot was, nor did he seem to care. It was suicide. It was against everything Methos believed in, but it was Byron's life.

Methos left the dressing room. He hadn't expected to see MacLeod so soon, and MacLeod looked surprised to see him as well, stopping only when Methos got in his way. Methos begged, he pleaded, but they both knew it was pointless. They were just words, and in the end, words meant nothing. Not to him, not to MacLeod, and not to Byron. He let MacLeod pass and went to Joe's. When MacLeod had won, and there was no doubt in Methos' mind that he would, they could talk. Really talk.

Joe unlocked the door for him. As MacLeod's Watcher, he got nervous every time MacLeod went into a fight. There were just so many things that could go wrong. Methos knew how little respect Byron had for the natural laws. Not that he told Joe that. He knew who would win. Byron was tired of living, and MacLeod was just an implement to end it all for him.

He helped Joe turn over bar stools, feeling detached from himself. There was a ringing in his ears, and he felt as if he were taller than he really was, or at least that the floor was a long way down. Joe tried to start up a conversation with him, but Methos just stared at him blankly. Joe let him put up the rest of the stools and went over to his guitar. Methos had nothing like that to calm his nerves, but then he saw the bottle on the counter. Well...maybe he did.

It didn't take long. Methos had just poured himself a drink when he sensed the approach of another Immortal. He sprawled back in his chair, and MacLeod went to him instead of Joe. MacLeod threw his jacket beside Methos and grabbed a glass as well. So, Byron was dead, and MacLeod had managed to kill more of his past. That was one way to get away from it, at least. But Byron hadn't loved him, and now he and MacLeod could be together. It was worth it.

They stared at each other for a moment. So, it wasn't an immediate, "get out of my life" speech. Maybe they had a chance.

"Matter and anti-matter, Byron knew that, too," Methos said. "His life had become one long tragedy."

"We all know how those end," MacLeod said. Methos looked away and took another sip from his glass. Either MacLeod was keeping himself civil because Joe was in the room, or he really wanted to talk. MacLeod must have read his mind, because he glanced back behind them to where Joe continued playing. "We'll lock up for you," he said.

Joe put his guitar away and left them. Methos was fairly sure the man knew about them; half the time, they weren't the most discreet people out there, but Joe had enough tact not to mention it until they made an official announcement. Or broke up for good. Methos glanced at MacLeod and hoped he was reading the Scot's face correctly. One or the other was going to happen tonight. MacLeod was right; they couldn't live like this. The whiskey helped a little to dull the ache inside him. If he could focus on the physical--the red hue of the bar, the smell of stale smoke and beer, the feeling of the cold table against his wrists--he could block out the individual emotions: fear, anger, hope. Especially hope.

Joe left them alone, but for a while, they only sat and drank together. Just like old times. He smiled at that. Who would have thought that to him, two years ago now qualified as the good old days? But they had been. MacLeod had dismissed him as a challenge, and they had been able to spend time alone without the distrust that now seemed to follow them like the Furies.

"And what about this?" Methos asked finally.

MacLeod glanced at him. Methos cleared his throat and cradled the glass between his palms, interlocking his fingers. Methos stared at them instead of at MacLeod's eyes. Serious discussion time. Why was his throat tight and his chest hurting? _Because you're in love, you idiot,_ he reminded himself.

"What about what?" MacLeod asked quietly. His voice was thick.

Methos slipped his hands under his thighs to keep from touching MacLeod. His denim jeans were soft against his skin, and he found himself nervously stroking his thighs. He shifted uncomfortably, jeans suddenly very tight, but he didn't want to reduce it to the physical this time. He had even managed to screw that up, and that had never been the problem. It wasn't too late. He could still walk away. It would be an amputation, quick, sudden, and bloody, but he would heal. He took a longer swallow of the anesthetic, and it burned down his throat.

"Us. Are we a tragedy, as well?" he asked, looking up for the first time. MacLeod still stubbornly stared down at his hands. "Because if we are...I want it over, MacLeod." Methos took a shaky breath. He didn't think he was strong enough to abide by that, but he knew Mac would be. The next time he came to the barge, or the dojo, or wherever, MacLeod would have to be strong enough for the both of them and send him on his way.

"Is that what you want, then?" MacLeod asked, quietly.

NO! he wanted to shout, but MacLeod raised his eyes up for the first time, and Methos stopped breathing. He started again, of course, very shortly afterwards, but there was nothing for him to read in MacLeod's eyes. Not condemnation, not scorn, not acceptance. Nothing. They were clear and blank and tore out his heart through his throat. "I guess it is," he said, instead. He stood to go.

A hand reached out and closed around Methos' wrist.

They both stared at it as if it had acted on its own volition. Methos' lip trembled. He wasn't sure if his legs could support him, but then MacLeod slipped off his seat and knelt in front of him, pressing his cheek against Methos' hand. Methos almost jerked back as he saw Mac's shoulders shaking under the red shirt.

MacLeod was asking forgiveness for killing Byron. From him. Methos knelt down, lifting the Scot's chin. His eyes were moist, but the first tear hadn't fallen yet. Methos ran his finger under the wet eyelash. MacLeod kissed his mouth gently, quickly becoming more needy.

But they weren't ready for that, yet. Methos knew part of it was the Quickening, but all he had to do was lightly push MacLeod away, and the man pulled back. Neither one of them got off their knees. "I'm...sorry," Mac said, lip trembling.

Methos shook his head, "Forget him," he said. Methos already had. This wasn't about the life or the death of a pathetic, useless man. Methos touched MacLeod's chest, pressing his palm against the desperate heartbeat. "I love you," he whispered. He barely stopped himself from clamping a hand over his mouth. He hadn't meant to say that out loud.

MacLeod stared at him. "I love you," Methos found himself repeating, rubbing it in. He parted his lips, waiting for the backlash. He knew what it was like to need someone he hated, but he could ignore MacLeod's words of disgust and heal from the blows. This silence was killing him. He reached out and touched Mac's cheek, trailing it down to his lips and then down his throat. _Say something, anything...please._

"I love you," MacLeod said quietly.

Methos examined the tone of voice, sure that MacLeod was just throwing his own words back in his face, but he realized the Scot was serious. He choked on the bitterness in his throat. "What?" he demanded and then thought about what MacLeod had just said. "Why?"

"Why?" MacLeod asked and laughed in spite of himself. "What do you mean, why?"

Methos' eloquence suddenly failed him. He made a gesture that he hoped would convey the Horsemen, Kronos, Cassandra, his past, all the things MacLeod knew, and the things he didn't. Everything about him that MacLeod mistrusted and didn't like. Himself.

MacLeod grabbed his hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. Accepted, forgiven, and forgotten. It was about time. Methos sat back, waiting for the bliss to break through the remains of his emotions, but it didn't come. And it didn't come. And then he realized why it didn't come. When MacLeod went to pull him closer for another kiss, Methos avoided it by jumping to his feet and grabbing his jacket.

MacLeod reached out to catch his ankle, but Methos wouldn't let him. He had made it almost to the door before Mac reached him, grabbed him, and spun him around. "Where are you going?" Mac demanded.

"You love me," Methos spat. That was the worst part--MacLeod didn't see it. Methos had been able to stand being treated like a belonging when that was all he was, but to have MacLeod...love him and still treat him like a misbehaving, sulky child.... It was too much. He didn't need this.

"Of course I love you," MacLeod said soothingly. He looked confused and hurt, but for once, Methos didn't care. He needed something drastic to make MacLeod see, and his anger obscured the pain he felt. He couldn't look at the bewilderment in MacLeod's face any more, it sickened him. While he watched, MacLeod took a deep breath, ready to explain things to the dim child yet again, and Methos turned to go. He wasn't going to stand through another lecture.

MacLeod grabbed his arm, preventing him from turning all the way. It was the wrong thing to do. Methos lashed out before he could stop himself. It felt good to see MacLeod reel back in pain for once. At least there was a different kind of blood rush in his ear. He moved his jaw, knowing he'd enjoyed that too much. Mac fell against the table near the door and didn't move from where he half-lay across it, with his arms braced. Methos moved up behind him, viciously kicking MacLeod's legs apart. He pressed up against MacLeod's body; he wanted to force MacLeod over the table, to fuck him the way Methos had been fucked for most of the relationship and show him exactly how it felt. He'd even unbuttoned his jeans before realizing what he was doing. His breathing was ragged in his own ears as he pulled away. It wasn't about the sex. It was about being torn apart from the inside because MacLeod had let him hang on and fear and suffer and hate for no reason other than his inability to be honest with Methos or himself. And through it all, MacLeod had made it seem like was Methos' fault.

MacLeod watched him back away and stood, bowing his head, turning away. Even though he seemed ready to take whatever Methos wanted to give him, Methos realized that it would have been the easy way out. He wasn't ready. Neither of them were. They had taken the next step, but they weren't there yet. Now, it was time to cool off. The hurt would die down. The love, if it were real, wouldn't. He could wait for that. He exhaled slowly and pressed his forehead against the back of MacLeod's shoulder. He felt the hard muscle through the shirt and couldn't

keep himself from kissing it. Methos sighed, but it turned into a choked sob. MacLeod heard it and went to turn around, but Methos pulled away quickly. He didn't want to be touched any more.

MacLeod's jaw clenched, and Methos could see the vein over his temple. "Good-bye," he whispered, realizing that this would hurt MacLeod more than anything he could have done to the Scot over the table. Then he stood back for a second and realized again that he wasn't doing this to hurt MacLeod. He was doing it for himself. No wonder he was hardly ever noble; it hurt too much.

MacLeod whipped around and grabbed him, holding him to his chest. But Methos only had to look at him, and MacLeod backed away. MacLeod's entire body was suddenly frantic, and for a heartbeat, Methos wanted to give himself over to Mac, just to make it better, but it would defeat everything, and they had come too far for that. MacLeod realized it at the same time and let him go. "Methos...please," MacLeod whispered.

"I can't," Methos said.

"Yes, you can," MacLeod snapped.

"Okay, then, I won't. Not yet. Not until..." Methos said and chewed his lip for a moment. Until what? Until MacLeod accepted him, not the person Mac had on the pedestal. Not until MacLeod saw him first and his past second. Not until he could look at MacLeod and not feel his own hurt. "Not until we're ready for us, MacLeod," he finished lamely.

Methos ignored Mac's eyes, suddenly wavering with extra liquid, and the painful set to MacLeod's mouth, and walked out the door.

It was colder outside, but for once, Methos didn't feel it. The emptiness was back again, but it was okay. He could accept it as a part of himself. He didn't have to compromise anymore to fill it, and that was enough. Maybe the next time it became too much for him, MacLeod would be ready.


End file.
